


Crystalline Tears

by SilverSanctuary



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.3 spoilers, Bittersweet, F/M, Female Warrior of Light - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Support, Unnamed Warrior of Light - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26050480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSanctuary/pseuds/SilverSanctuary
Summary: ~5.3 Spoilers Galore!~G'raha takes some time to process his emotions, mourn what he has lost, and appreciate what he has gained.Hurt/comfort, unnamed F!WoL/Exarch
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 8
Kudos: 91





	Crystalline Tears

The community of the Rising Stones provides aetherical healing, alchemical medications, and food and drink to heal his new -- _old?_ \-- body. They give him new robes, new shoes, a new weapon. They offer him a new title as a Scion of the Seventh Dawn.

The kindness and acceptance shine in their eyes like the stars that finally dot the skies of the First, but G'raha struggles to keep up with their generosity. So he gives tired smiles and quiet apologies to the Scions seated around the table and instead retreats to the new rooms allotted to him to give his old -- _new?_ \-- body time to rest.

With the door closed, he sighs deeply. His plan had gone off without much of a hitch, all in all. Compared to his previous plans -- to lock himself in the Crystal Tower for gods’ knew how long; to hurl himself into the rift to spare his star and Warrior the torture of primordial Light -- this one had worked quite miraculously. As much as he and Beq Lugg had studied and argued, at the end of the day, neither of them could guarantee that the transfer of the souls and memories of the Scions would in fact work, and that was doubly true for his transference. But here he is, standing in the darkness of his rooms at the Rising Stones with his memories intact, his body functional, and his soul unscathed.

He slides down the door, ignoring the bed and chairs in the corners of the small room. Their softness and comfort make him feel more pampered than he has in decades, and that feels wrong right now. Y’shtola and Krile kindly left books on his bedside table, but he cannot bring himself to touch them. Not yet.

His thoughts rattle in his head, and he buries his head in his arms and takes deep breaths. The feel of his breath on his forearms makes him shiver, and he holds his right arm out and just stares in awe for some time. He wiggles his fingers; he opens and closes his fist; he runs the fingers of his left hand over the skin. Skin -- not crystal, not the cool smooth mineral embedded with gold veins that he lived with for oh so long. He slides his hands around his neck and up his cheeks, where the crystal had also laid claim.

So smooth, so warm. So young.

So foreign. So familiar.

With the exception of the strange juxtaposition of feeling more energetic than he has felt in a century one moment and then unbelievably bone tired the next, he is . . . fine.

He is fine. He is fine. He is alive. He can breathe and walk and eat and laugh and cast spells and _live_ and _oh wicked white_ , what does it mean to live now, with this familiar foreign body on this foreign familiar star?

In the evening’s cool, G’raha hides his face in his hands and cries.

Those first tears release a dam inside, bringing sobs, shaking, and hiccups. He had felt his lungs freeze as the crystal overtook him. Before that, he was plagued night and day with dogged resolve to save the Scions, and before _that_ , well -- secrets and guilt and a suffocating _fear_ , pulling him down along a fatalistic path that demanded his own sacrifice. He _aches_ , by the Twelve, he aches, and for once in his long, long life, he allows that sensation to flow out of him.

He doubts the coiled mess of feelings will ever truly leave him, but as he mops at his face with his sleeves, he feels the grip in his chest lessen, just a bit.

G'raha chuckles with the giddiness of it.

The knock on the door rattles through his bones. He leaps to the other side of the room -- _has he always been so quick on his feet?_ \-- and whips around to face the wooden barrier as a worried voice calls,

“G’raha?”

He stands in terror for a moment, the sound of her voice sending shivers of lightning through him. For a moment he considers crouching in silence until she goes away, but that would just spark more worry. And at the end of the day, he will always do anything in his power to spare her distress.

So quickly he scrubs his face, slaps on a smile, and opens the door for the Warrior of Light and Darkness.

“My friend, how may I be of service?”

The words spill out bright enough, but as he meets her gaze, he realizes with a sinking feeling that he has vastly overestimated his ability to pretend his emotions aren’t running wild. He swallows harshly to keep himself under control. In that moment he swears that some of his Exarch patience and calm must have spilled over the lip of his spirit vessel as she carried him across worlds, leaving him flustered and uncertain.

"I wanted to check on you. You left dinner early, and then I thought I heard --"

Crying. Weeping, if he is truly honest.

He waves his arms in front of him, all boyish scholar, and prays his complexion isn't too blotchy. "'Tis fine, nothing to worry about, my friend. I felt fatigued earlier and thought I would retire for some reading before bed."

She leans over a little to look past him into the dark room with books untouched on the bedside table. Eyebrows raised, she challenges, “Reading in the dark?”

He turns his head to follow her gaze as his ears lower in shame. The window looks out onto the cobblestones of Revenant’s Toll, and a little light comes in from a nearby streetlamp, cutting buttery squares onto the floor, but it is not nearly enough for reading. He raises a hand to his face and tries to hide behind his hair and fingers as he lets out a breathy laugh.

“Forgive me. I do not mean to worry you, nor to lie to you. I am . . . simply out of sorts this evening.”

And without any further prodding, the tightness in his chest squeezes, his face scrunches up again, and the tears leak out.

She moves immediately with a quick look down the hallway, and then ushers him back inside his room. The door closes with a snap as she kicks it shut and guides him to sit on the bed. He is laughing at the absurdity of it all and tries to wipe away the water, but his body keeps shuddering with sobs.

Apologies sputter from his lips, but she stills him with a look that silences him instantly. “None of that, now,” she chides as she places a handkerchief in his hands. He gratefully blows his nose. His ears twitch at the strike of a match, and then the room glows with the soft light of a lantern.

By the time he has scrubbed his nose and eyes with the kerchief, she has seated herself next to him. The lantern light gleams along her face and hair. She tilts her head so that he looks at her and asks, "Do you want me to leave you alone, or would you like me to stay?"

How could any of the stories have ever described her as stoic, G’raha marvels, as he drinks in her quiet caring voice, the gentle way her hand reaches out to squeeze his own.

"Please, stay," he croaks. She guides him forward, and he clutches at her shoulders and back as her arms come around him. When was the last time he was held like this? Most likely Lyna, at some point, but _gods_ , ages ago and certainly not while he felt this vulnerable.

At the thought of Lyna, he remembers the lavender trees of Lakeland, so close to her eyes in color. The bustle and fragile hope of the Cystarium where he had commanded such power with such ease, and now, this new -- _old?_ \-- body feels empty without the aetherical hum of the Tower coursing through him. This old -- _new?_ \-- body does not have the sore shoulder from the place where Emet-Selch shot him; it does not yet know the pain of a century living with exhausted joints and bones. These eyes will never see Lyna or the Cystarium. These eyes will never know the warzone of the Eighth Umbral Calamity.

He weeps into her shoulder. Hands that have easily slain gods rub his back and caress through his hair. She whispers in his ear, “It’s all right; it’s all right, G’raha. You’re safe. You’re safe.” He feels the comfort wash over him like warm sunlight.

Finally, his body stills in its shaking, and he pulls back. The fabric of her tunic is damp and messy, but she does not fully move away from him.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, I -- thank you,” he murmurs as he twists his hands in his lap. “I needed that more than I realized --”

Her lips press softly against his forehead and then to his left cheek, right where the crystal used to be, and she gives him a tender smile.

“We’ve all cried like that. Seven hells, I certainly have. It’s good to get it out and is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. This road is hard, but I’m here for you, G’raha.”

His skin burns where her lips touched him. He grabs her hand and grips it hard as he struggles to make his voice work. “ _Thank you_ , truly, my friend. I do feel better. But I also don’t want to keep you any longer; I should be fine by myself now.”

He does not want her to go, but if he doesn’t send her away now, he will ask her to run away with him and never look back. He smiles softly to himself. Well, that feeling certainly hasn’t changed despite now occupying this foreign familiar body.

His love for her must be seared upon his very soul.

She hugs him again, a quick press of her body against his. She rises from the bed and reaches for the door. “Promise me you’ll come get me if you need me, anytime of the day or night.”

It is said with a tone that gives no quarter, and he gasps out, “O-of course.”

She nods at him quickly, and then slips back out into the hallway.

In the silence, relief wakes like a point of starlight in him. The tightness in his chest releases its grip further. Somehow, blessedly, calm floods him as the fear and anxiety leave his body, and he grins with both arms pressed against his chest in wonder.

He is no longer alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


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